


when i wake up, i'm afraid (somebody else might take my place)

by frikey



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 16:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13639725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frikey/pseuds/frikey
Summary: Colby's high doesn't last very long.





	when i wake up, i'm afraid (somebody else might take my place)

**Author's Note:**

> set after raw, 12/25/17.  
> it's been awhile, y'all. i have a lot of feelings.  
> also, i should add that roman's not actually in this, just mentioned briefly.  
> thank you to [sanaya](http://heeljackgallagher.tumblr.com) for being the first to read this and for encouraging me to post it.  
> title comes from _afraid_ by the neighbourhood. xo

Colby’s high doesn’t last very long.

Not to say that he isn’t happy about the win. Happy about becoming a _three time_ _tag team champion_. Because he is. But it wasn’t with the person he really wanted it to be with, and so that takes the edge off.

He knows Jon is upset. He knows it before he ever even gets back to the locker room, before he ever even picks up the phone to call him. He knows it because he knows _Jon_ , and if six years of being in a relationship with him has taught Colby anything, it’s that Jon takes everything personally. Jon’s text from earlier stares him in the face.

_You’ll do great tonight. Break some fuckin’ jaws._

Ten years ago, and to anyone else, Colby would’ve responded with ‘ _Of course I will_.’ But it’s not ten years ago, and it’s not just anyone, so there’s no need to respond at all. Jon sees through Colby’s arrogance anyway, and Colby (not so) secretly likes Jon’s reassuring messages. It’s Jon’s way of saying good luck. Jon’s way of saying I love you without so many words—without getting too sappy. Jon hates sappy shit. He’d looked torn that morning, like he wanted to punch Colby in the face for nearly crying because he had to leave him. Five days post-surgery. On Christmas. For over a week. Sometimes, Colby wishes Jon would allow himself to be vulnerable. Just a little bit.

Colby stares at the text for a while longer, putting off the phone call for as long as possible. But there’s only so much time he can waste—the show is already over, and he knows he could go take a shower, maybe even go back to the hotel before he works up the nerve and calls, but something in his gut tells him this is a conversation he wants to have before he gets too comfortable. Like ripping off a bandaid, or something of the sort.

The way Jon answers the phone, on the fourth ring, with a unenthusiastic, “Hello?” only serves to prove Colby right. Jon hardly ever starts a conversation with a greeting—more like a, “you’ll never guess what I fuckin’ did today.”

“Hey,” Colby breathes, guilt washing over him now that he’s heard Jon’s voice. Now that the sliver of doubt he had about Jon’s mood has been put to rest.

“Hey.”

“What’re you up to?” Colby implores, once again putting off the inevitable. It seems to be one of the things he does best.

“Getting ready for bed,” Jon answers flatly, and Colby knows it’s a lie, because it’s not even nine o’clock in Vegas yet, and Jon never goes to bed before midnight. Injury hasn’t changed that.

“Turning into an old man on me, sunshine?” Colby jokes, a two-in-one thing, his tone light. Jon doesn’t respond.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence—Colby doesn’t know what to say, and Jon is obviously working on keeping his temper in check, because when he does finally speak again, it’s in that same, flat tone of voice.

“Joe really plays the whole ‘pissed off about Ambrose’s injury’ part well, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” Colby agrees quietly. “Probably because he actually _is_ pretty pissed off about it.”

“Guess that makes one of you.”

“Jon—”

“I know,” Jon cuts him off, his voice still flat. “I know the kid’s an asshole. I know you owed Kurt a favor. I guess that’s what really makes it sting.”

“Makes _what_ sting?” Colby asks, trying not to snap. He dips his face down into the palm of his free hand. “It’s business, Jon. You know better than anyone how this shit works.”

“Oh, don’t drop me that bullshit business line, Colby,” Jon snaps, venom seeping into his voice. “You didn’t have to look so goddamned _happy_ about it.”

“Happy about what? You telling me you wouldn’t be happy about a title win? Because we both know that’s the real bullshit here.”

“No,” Jon says, still angry. “Happy about winning with my replacement.”

There it is. The admission—the vulnerability Colby’s been waiting for.

“Jon,” Colby signs, his voice softening. “It’s not—it’s not like that. Not at all. There’s _no_ _one_ I would rather be in that ring with than you, even when you’re beating the shit out of me. And there’s no one I would rather be sharing this moment with. Hell, the kid is nowhere to be found—probably out gloating like he did it all himself.”

The words are meant to make Jon feel better, but they don’t. They do very little to quell the nervous anger roiling in his belly.

“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Jon bites, and that one hurts. And maybe Colby would’ve deserved it three years ago, in the throes of his solo run, when he was worried about himself and his own success more so than anything else, including their crumbling relationship. But not now. Not now that he had been _more_ than knocked back down to size. Not now that they were trying to put the past behind them—or so they both said.

“I don’t know what your fucking problem is,” Colby snaps, “But I’ve already said my piece. I’ve apologized—profusely, actually, and you don’t get to berate me for it now, not anymore, not when we’ve already had this conversation a hundred times over. I’m not going to keep saying sorry because you can’t let it go. Okay? I’m just—I’m not.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quickly, and there’s still a hint of anger lurking at the edges, but his tone is mostly even. “It’s not about that, not really. It’s about being pushed out again, about watching you move on without me. It’s about this fucking arm, and...”

Jon trails off, and his words hit Colby like a ton of bricks. He knows he must’ve struck a nerve somewhere, because Jon never talks about his feelings like this, and this is the closest he’s come to opening up about his injury since he found out he’d have to have the surgery. Before, it had been all about how it was no big deal. About how he’d bounce right back.

“And what?” Colby asks, “You really think I’m gonna move on now that you’re hurt? Forget all about you or something?”

“Yeah,” Jon exhales, and Colby realizes he must’ve been holding his breath. “I guess.”

“You think—what? That all of a sudden, you’re not important? That I don’t _love_ you? That I’ll pack up all my shit and leave because _I_ have to take care of _you_ for once? Not that you’ll let me, bu—”

“It’s not just you, alright?” Jon interjects, snappy again, like he’s angry with himself for feeling this way. “It’s—it’s everything. Every _one_. No one’s gonna care when I come back, because they’ll have already forgotten me.”

“Jon—” Colby starts, but Jon keeps talking.

“And it was never like that for you, y’know? You’re the fucking _architect_ . The big, bad Kingslayer, Seth _fuckin’_ Rollins. You’re Paul’s golden boy—nobody was ever gonna forget about you. They were counting down the days until you came back. It’s not like that for me, Colby. It’s never gonna be like that for me.”

There it is again. The weight, the crushing vulnerability of Jon’s words, settling smackdab in the middle of Colby’s chest.

“You’re wrong,” Colby says after a moment, his throat constricting painfully as he swallows around the lump there. “You’re wrong about them forgetting about you. I get tweets all the time, every single day now, asking about you, how you are, when you’ll be back—and you’ve been off TV for what, a week? You’re just as important to these people as I was. And you’re wrong about it not being like that for me, too—I felt the _exact_ same way you do. Both times. I felt like I let everybody down.”

“Yeah, but I let _you_ down,” Jon says quickly, softly, like he regretted the words before they ever even made it out of his mouth. “I didn’t let everybody down—I let the most important person in my life down.”

“You just said it wasn’t about me,” Colby says dumbly, because he doesn’t know how else to respond when Jon’s this emotional, and Jon sighs, like he’s trying to explain the most obvious thing in the world and Colby’s just not getting it. Maybe Colby’s just that dense.

“Because it’s not _all_ about you,” Jon says, suddenly sounding very tired. “I’m not worried about becoming unimportant to you because I’m not on TV—that pales in comparison. I’m worried about becoming unimportant to you because I’m fucking—I’m fucking useless. Because I fucked up, because I _got_ _hurt_ , because I don’t know how to control my temper, because I’m a fucking _loser_ , Colby, and I’ll never understand how you ended up with me in the first place.”

Colby laughs at that. He can’t help it.

“You know, I used to think the same thing about you. _Way_ before I ever got hurt—even before The Shield, even before the first time we slept together. I used to think you were so cool. Indie bad boy Jon Moxley, y’know, with your fucking deathmatches and your gutsy antics. I was intimidated by how smart you were—reckless, sure, but so fucking _smart_ , so sharp-tongued. The first time I ever had to wrestle you, I thought I was gonna puke backstage. I thought, ‘There’s no way I can go toe to toe with this guy, no way I can put on a good show against him.’”

“Really? Because all I remember is desperately wanting to knock that arrogant little smirk right off your pretty, pretty face.”

Colby laughs again.

“I was a cocky little shit, wasn’t I?” He asks, ignoring Jon’s jab of, “You still are,” to add, “But that’s the thing: even after all that, after FCW, after The Shield, after my fucking ego grew disproportionately large—I still kept thinking to myself, ‘There’s no way this is real. There’s no way he can actually be in love with me. There’s no way.’ But there was, Jon.

“There was a way—because you loved me through it all. Through the ups and downs. Despite what I became. And I will love you through it, too. _Always_. Even if you never learn to pick your dirty towels up off the bathroom floor. Even if you never stop shaking your fucking sweaty, _nasty_ hair on me after every show. Even if you never stop calling me by shitty fucking nicknames because you refuse to have anything to do with something that isn’t at least a _little_ condescending.” Colby pauses for a second before he adds, “Even if you’re injured. Nothing is ever going to change the way I feel about you.”

“You’re a fucking sap,” Jon mutters, but he’s noticeably choked up, and Colby grins.

“But you love me.”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees quietly, “I do.”

There’s another long pause, although it’s infinitely more comfortable now, and Jon is the one to break it once more.

“Just—just don’t go getting any ideas, yeah? About this new partner thing. I still don’t fucking like it.”

“I know,” Colby says, “I’m not a huge fan, myself.”

Jon snorts, and Colby stretches his legs out in front of him, still clad in his ring gear.

“You gonna be okay?” He asks, seriously, and he imagines Jon shrugging, because that’s Jon’s go to response when he doesn’t want to give a genuine answer to one of Colby’s questions.

“‘M fine,” Jon says, and Colby bites his lip. Things are still tense, but this’ll do for now. At least until Colby can get home.

“Alright,” He says after a moment, running a hand through his hair and grimacing at the cooled sweat he comes away with. “I’ll call you in the morning, then.”

“I’ll look forward to it, princess.”

Colby rolls his eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Jon.”

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart. Love you.”

Colby’s the sap, his ass.

“Love you, too.”

“And, Colby?” Jon says before Colby can hang up, and Colby jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can start unlacing his boots.

“Yeah?”

“Congrats on the win, champ.”


End file.
